Say Something
by TheHardcoreHobbit
Summary: And anywhere I would have followed you...


A/N: Inspired by the song "Say Something" by Great Big World, especially the cover by the Pentatonix. Seriously, if you haven't heard it, look it up, it's amazing.

* * *

John stared up at Sherlock.

It was all he could do. The man on the ground watched his best friend, his roommate, as he said the words "goodbye John," and threw the phone down, a split second before he heard them through the ear piece and the call disconnected.

"SHERLOCK!" he shouted once, as this great man, the one he refused to give up on, gracefully took the plunge off of the side of the building.

"This is my note," he had said.

John's mind was blank.

It didn't make sense.

There was absolutely _no sense_ in the scene that played out before him.

He didn't think life could make sense again.

There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to change what was happening.

Two hearts stopped when one hit the ground.

John's feet were moving before he could understand why . His mind was running with his body, pounding out _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ in rhythm with his sneakers on the pavement.

The biker hit him then, and he landed on the asphalt with a resounding thud. The world dissolved into white noise and he wondered if he just lay there, just for a bit, his vision would disappear too. He'd wake up, and this would all be a dream.

It had to be a dream.

It had to.

But when he opened his eyes, everything was the same.

There was a circle of people surrounding his friend. He wanted to shout for them to move; Sherlock had never liked being crowded. He was probably giving them some kind of smart ass comment right now, and if they'd just be quiet for a minute they'd hear it.

They'd hear him talking, because he had to be talking, he had to be alive. There was nothing if he wasn't alive.

Nothing.

He stumbled into the circle, not sure exactly how he was standing or how he managed to get over to the group.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through," he mumbled, trying to push them away, but they were grabbing at him, yanking him back, "let me come through _please_."

He had to see, he had to know. He had to know.

Still they held him back.

"He's my friend, he's my friend, _please_!" He let momentum carry him forward.

He had called Sherlock a friend, a _friend_, as if that summed it up, as if that explained anything at all, but he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe because he was _drowning_. There was blood on the ground, so much, and it was stealing the air from his lungs.

Finally he managed to get close enough to grab the wrist.

Sherlock's wrist.

And there was no pulse.

Crumbling.

He was crumbling.

People were holding him up, trying to keep him on his feet, keep him away from the body, but they didn't understand, they couldn't…

"Please, let me just…"

He didn't know what he wanted to do. He needed something. Something. But he didn't know what.

_Say something…_

He was on his knees, and then he was crouched on the pavement, the cold sinking through his trousers.

Cold. It was so cold.

People he didn't know, didn't recognize, were turning the body over. They didn't know Sherlock, they shouldn't be touching him, why were they doing that?

His eyes were open. Staring unseeing at the sky above.

"Mmm, jesus, no…" he groaned, barely holding on as memories bombarded him, of those eyes picking up details of his life, of others' lives, out of what seemed like nothing.

If he was going to remember anything about this day, he wanted it to be this: Sherlock Holmes was not a fake.

He wasn't.

No matter what anyone said, what even Sherlock himself had said, John knew. He knew. _He knew._

"_God, no…_"

The one person he had. The one thing that kept him going, in a twisted, strange way.

And now it was all gone.

They lifted the body up and onto the stretcher, wheeling him inside as quickly as they could.

Leaving John behind.

Leaving the puddle of blood behind.

…_I'm giving up on you._

Snow fell from the heavens as if playing a cruel joke while he watched everything he believed in being taken away.

Sherlock Holmes was not a fake.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

* * *

A few weeks later:

He came to the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson. Wasn't sure why exactly, but he knew that he had to go. He had some things to say, maybe. Maybe that was it.

Mrs. Hudson ranted for a moment in front of Sherlock's grave, thankfully leaving after he'd interrupted her.

Then he was alone again.

He cleared his throat, unsure how to start.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you…_

"You… You told me once, that you weren't a hero," He paused, trying not to let the memories over take him, "There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, and the most human…"

He tried to think of a better way to phrase it, but gave up, letting the words pour out, "… human-being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me you told a lie."

His voice caught, "So… there."

_And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you…_

He checked behind him to make sure no one was around before he moved forward, placing his hand on the gravestone. What he wanted to say next was more personal and open then he'd said to anyone in as long as he could remember. He needed that contact, even if it was just with a slab of stone.

It connected him with Sherlock, and that's what mattered.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

It was all he could do to hold back the tears. He was amazed he'd even been able to choke the single sentence out from his gradually tightening throat.

John turned away, walking towards the silhouette of Mrs. Hudson, intending to ask her if she was ready to leave, when another thought struck him.

_And anywhere I would have followed you…_

"But please, there's one more thing, _one more thing_, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He couldn't keep control anymore. He let himself cry until the count of five. Five seconds of pure undiluted sorrow and then he would compose himself, he would find Mrs. Hudson, and he would go home. He would carry on.

_ Say something, I'm giving up on you…_

The silence around him was the only response he needed.

He _would_ carry on, because it was the only thing left.

…_you're the one that I love, and I'm saying good-bye._


End file.
